Painkiller (13 page)

I press play.

It’s an ugly bedroom containing a pine bed, and there is a fat naked woman on it, on her knees, being taken energetically from behind by a man. Her loose, low-hanging breasts slap together, rippling and pulsating. After a few minutes, another man appears, forcing himself into her mouth. She gives out a shrieking moan, and I realise that I have the sound on far too loud.

‘Moaneeka? Are you OK?’

I scramble for the keyboard to pause it, and spirit the picture into the toolbar.

‘I’m fine.’

‘I heard scream?’

‘Yes, just a stab of pain in my back.’

‘Oh yes.’ She nods furiously and her pretty dark ponytail bounces around her neck. ‘Do you need me?’

‘No, Agnieszka, I am fine.’

She returns to the floor polisher and I return to my computer, flipping up the screen again.

I watch, hypnotised, as the men push into her. They move around her body with their hands, attending to every corner like they’re tucking in the bedsheets.

It’s porn
, I think, almost swooning with relief.
Of course it is. No wonder he doesn’t want me to stumble across this. No wonder he keeps his password secret.

We talked about it years ago, when things were difficult, physically, between us. I even remember me making the ultimate sacrifice, asking him to find a lover, if he ever needed to, and get his needs elsewhere. I remember the expression on his face, his jaw set firmly. ‘Never,’ he said. ‘I would never do that to you.’

He wanted to hold me, I could see that. The scene we played out needed that moment, but we couldn’t do that, of course, so his pledge came out as a bit flat and empty. So he bent down and touched my hand. ‘We’ll be fine,’ he said meaninglessly. ‘We’ll be fine.’

And then we never talked about it again.

So I shouldn’t be surprised; I should be relieved that he’s chosen pornography and not sought out a prostitute, or a lover. Oh well. Mystery solved. Let him keep his secret.

Perhaps that’s what he’s hiding under the dustbin!
I think with a smile.
His collection of pornographic DVDs.

I am not naive. In my experience I know that most men have their little hiding places. My father’s was in the locked glovebox of his car. I will never forget driving with him in the countryside to see an aunt, and while we were traversing a particularly troublesome cattle grid the lock popped open, showering my lap with video cassettes with strange names scrawled on them. In my mind’s eye I can still remember
Big Ones 12
falling on my little red shoes with the buckles on them, bouncing, finally coming to rest on my left ankle sock.

Daddy stopped the car, walked around to my side, asked me to stand on the verge while he tidied up his tapes and put them in the boot. He didn’t say a word while he did it, but once we were moving he gave me a tight, embarrassed smile and said softly, ‘Sorry about that.’

The next (and last) time he apologised to me was when he was walking back from the garden with his red-stained shovel.

I click on the little red ‘x’, in the corner and the film vanishes. I can see now that it is clustered on the left-hand side, with other files with interesting, suggestive names.

Apart from one. It’s a file called
MONICA
.

I click on it and photos fill the screen.

The photos are of me.

Dozens of pictures. Hundreds of pictures. Pictures of me shopping. Pictures of me sitting in cafés. I scroll down. More and more. Judging by the length of my hair (and the grey roots showing), most of them seemed to have been taken three or four years ago, when the drugs had started to banish some of the pain and I was poking my head outside the house for the first time.

My vision starts to swim again. I clutch the edges of the desk to stay upright.

More and more pictures. All secretly taken. Pictures of me going into the hospital, walking with my stick. Pictures of me sitting on park benches, my face the colour of ashes. Pictures of me turning round, as if to say, ‘Was that a click? I have a feeling I’m being watched…’

He’s been following me. Or he’s got someone to follow me. One or the other.
 

Oh Dominic
.
What have you done?

I wake up…

… Not too bad today.

I have spent twenty-four hours trying not to think about what was on Dominic’s side of the computer, or his patronising ‘Father knows best’ attitude over my capsaicin treatment.

I train myself to forget about such things, because I know if I allow myself the luxury of anger, if I let those thoughts in – just a crack – then tension will tie my body up in knots, and the pain levels will rise, and the dream of going to Angelina’s will be just that, just a dream.

I have focused on good thoughts, fragments of happiness. Our rain-soaked wedding. Our giggly honeymoon. Laughing over the bad violinist. I don’t know if my memories are real or just an illusion, a placebo to cover up the yawning chasms in my mind, but quite frankly, it doesn’t matter.

Real memories or not, the effect is the same, and the big day has finally arrived, and the pain levels are low, and I’m pitifully grateful to my Angry Friend for giving me permission to leave the house.

Dominic has arranged a taxi for me. He seems pleased that I’m going; pleased that I’m happy, and probably pleased that I’m out of the house. Blessed peace for him. He tells me not to hurry back; just enjoy myself. ‘Have fun,’ he says. The words are strange to me. The whole concept is strange.

I slip into her shop, The Art of Darkness. It’s already busy with guests, and I wander around the darker corners, hoping to creep up and surprise her.

Angelina has stowed away all the pictures of other artists and turned it into a shrine dedicated to her own work ‘because I bloody can’. Not that her stuff doesn’t deserve showing; it’s magnificent and disturbing in equal measure. It has to be seen to be believed; wrought iron skeletons erupting from the walls; screaming trees; blackened horses running through fire. She has had her larger sculptures moved over from her studio in Ladbroke Grove; I’m in my scarlet three-quarter-length coat, and I feel like Little Red Riding Hood, picking my way through a dark forest.

There is an odour about the place; chemical. I suppose I’ve always smelt it, but as I’ve said, my senses are more acute now. I’ve smelled something similar recently.
It must have been the invitation.
I breathe it in and I feel light-headed; woozy, like when things start moving and monsters appear.

One side of the wall is dominated by a huge gaping mouth containing a tongue shaped like a drowning person, both made out of blackened copper. I stare at it for an age, not knowing if it’s real or just part of my addled imagination. I stand and dare it to swallow me up.

There is a shriek of joy behind me.

‘Mon!’

Angelina is there, stunningly dressed in a purple velvet off-the-shoulder dress, long silk black gloves and huge intimidating knee-length stiletto boots. Her hair is piled up on her head and she’s gripping a cigarette holder (holding something which looks suspiciously like a spliff) in her right hand, and a flute of something sparkly in her left. She is ecstatic to see me, her red slash of a mouth pulled into a wide grin.

‘Mon… You came!’

She casts her glass to one side, stubs out her holder into a very expensive pot, holds her arms out, rushes forward, realises she daren’t touch me, and flaps her hands with delight.

‘You’re here! You’re here! Come and let me introduce you to everyone I know.’

She drags me from black-clad art lover to black-clad art lover (who all shake my hand in a polite, bemused manner), resting finally on a large scruffy man in the corner, devouring canapés. He is all blond highlights and earrings, designer stubble and dark tanned skin, and rather attractive; the only thing that spoils the effect is his rather unfortunate ponytail. It’s too short, so it sticks out at a right-angle from the back of his head.

‘This is my man, Clyde. I told you he’s an artist, didn’t I? But don’t hold that against him. Clyde, this is Monica, one of my oldest and bestest friends. Be nice to her.’

Then she dives back into the crowd.

The man scrutinises me. ‘You have great bone structure.’

‘Thanks,’ I say.

‘Are you Monica? Monica, the one who had the accident?’

My stomach turns into a knot.
How many of her friends has she discussed me with?

‘I think so.’

‘That’s amazing. You look good. You wouldn’t know it.’

‘Thanks.’

‘You’re very beautiful.’

‘Thanks again.’

I get a lot of young guys chatting me up, hoping to bag what they see as a MILF, even though I’ve never had kids. I know he’s coming onto me. I move the subject away from how beautiful I look.

‘So, Clyde… What do you paint?’

‘Imperfection.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I find beauty in the imperfect; I specialise in women who’ve been marked. I did an amputee last week. She had beautiful stumps. I find physical deformity very beautiful. Don’t you?’

‘Well. It depends. It can show strength of character, if you’re a soldier, or a fireman…’

‘I suppose…’ Clyde doesn’t seem interested in the concept.

‘Have you known Angelina long?’

‘A few years, professionally, but we’ve only been dating a short while. I’ve been enjoying getting under her skin, unpeeling the layers, finding the depths within. I find her fascinating.’

‘Even though she’s not scarred.’

Angelina takes this opportunity to give out a bizarre tinkling laugh.

Clyde smiles. ‘As I say, I’m enjoying getting under her skin.’ He waves at Angelina, who pulls a silly cross-eyed face at us both. ‘She once told me she had a murky secret, some dark pact she has made with the devil, and she won’t tell me what it is.’

He puts a cigarette in his teeth and lights up.

‘I don’t think Angelina would give her secrets up for anybody,’ I say.

He doesn’t seem interested in my opinion. ‘I would like to paint you.’

My smile is transforming into a panicked grin. ‘Well, I’m sorry to say that I’m perfect in every way.’

‘Yeah, but you’re not, are you? You have scars. I would like to paint your pain.’

‘I don’t think so.’

‘Think about it. I would pay you. If you ever come off your drugs any time in the future, let me know. Because I would like to paint that.’

He blows a smoke ring. ‘Actually, if you have any of your drugs spare, I’d like to try them. They sound fucking amazing. You must be on the most incredible buzz.’

‘Not really.’

Clyde spies a small man in an ugly waistcoat and gives a double-take. ‘Shit, that’s Dylan Preece from
The Telegraph
, see you around.’ And he vanishes after his prey.

Angelina extricates herself from a gaggle of overpainted women and charges towards me.

‘What do you think of Clyde?’

‘Seriously? You want to know?’

‘Seriously?’

‘I think he’s hideous.’

‘Oh.’

‘Why did you tell him about me?’

‘Why? Of course I told him about you, sweetie, you’re my best friend.’

‘I mean, about my accident.’

‘Well… It’s not a secret, is it?’

‘No.’

‘You didn’t say it was a secret.’

I sigh. ‘No…’

‘I thought you might meet him sometime. I told him in the context of warning him not to hug you or do anything stupid like that. He can be very tactile when he’s on speed.’

‘Oh, OK.’

‘Why? Have I done something wrong?’

‘He said he wanted to paint my pain.’

‘He said what?’

‘He wanted me to come off my drugs, and to paint my pain.’

‘You’re fucking joking.’

‘Oh, and he quite fancied trying my drugs if I had some to spare.’

‘The little shitbag… Right, he’s had this coming for weeks…’

She dives back into the crowd, steers a protesting Clyde away from the man from
The Telegraph
, and takes him to one side. There is a lot of shouting from Angelina as she sticks a varnished finger into his shoulder and prods his jacket. Another finger points to the door. Dylan Preece oozes quietly away, like a multicoloured film of petrol on a puddle.

Over Angelina’s shoulder, Clyde glares at me. I hear fragments of the argument, mainly from him, because his voice is higher and shriller than Angelina’s. ‘Not such a big deal… Don’t get uptight about it… I would have paid her… I don’t see what the deal is…’

Five minutes later he’s on the pavement outside, with his coat puddled around his ankles.

He picks it up and tries to muster up some dignity.

The guests of Art of Darkness stare on with bovine curiosity, like the row is some art installation performed for their benefit.

Angelina switches on her smile and returns to the throng. I carry on looking at Clyde. He leans on his sports car – I hope it’s
his
sports car – with studied nonchalance. He looks like he’s going nowhere. I watch his petulant face with a queasy fascination.

I poke my head out of the door.

‘Hey,’ I say.

He looks at me with disdain, chewing his lip.

‘You don’t look very happy.’

He ignores me. He makes a point of not looking at me, suddenly finding a shop that makes home-made baby clothes across the street incredibly fascinating.

‘Listen,’ I continue, ‘if you’re really hurting about breaking up with Angelina, well, just call me…’

His focuses on me at last, and a smile trickles onto his face.

‘… because I’d really love to paint your pain,’ I say.

I close the door.

(
Fuck
)
that felt good
, I thought.
I’m such a bitch
.

The event continues and Clyde stays where he is. He’s obviously waiting to sweet-talk his way back into Angelina’s bed after everyone else has gone. The crowd is thinning, there’s a bare half-dozen left. Finally, Angelina rolls her eyes, excuses herself, and hurries upstairs.

Thirty seconds later, Clyde is suddenly joined by easels, paints, brushes, jars of water that smash spectacularly around him. Angelina has decided to clear out the studio he inhabits rent-free above the shop. As he dives for cover, down come the paintings. Canvases of amputees, paraplegics, mangled war veterans and rescued lab animals rain down around him, crashing and splintering and becoming even more mutilated than their subjects. One lands on his car and embeds itself in the soft-top, and he screams, shouting obscenities up at the unseen Angelina.

He now decides to collect his stuff with the utmost haste. From the streams of water running down the front window, I’m guessing Angelina has filled a watering can and is threatening to drench his work as it lies on the pavement. He puts down the soft-top, rescues as much as he can, and roars off in an angry cloud of exhaust fumes.

Angelina comes down, dusting her gloved hands. ‘Right, that’s got rid of him,’ she says to me, ignoring everyone else. ‘It’s ten past six. What say we lock up here and go back to my flat for vino?’

‘Um… OK.’

‘No “um” about it, sister. As of today, I’m single and I’m celebrating.’

We’re back at Angelina’s little flat, built above her studio in Ladbroke Grove. I don’t know where she gets the money from but I recall her father was something big in biscuits.

The flat is what you might call ‘designer bohemian’. OKA furniture is everywhere; tables and boxes scrubbed with lime. And huge velvet curtains from Scruples. There are delightful little pots and knick-knacks everywhere plucked from delightful little shops in Ladbroke Grove and the Continent, but none of her own work. I asked why once. ‘I couldn’t look at that stuff all day,’ she said. ‘It just bloody depresses me.’

We’re on the second bottle of wine when I say, ‘So that was the end of Clyde.’

‘God, yes. He’s been annoying me for a while. What a mistake he was. So glad I got your second opinion, otherwise I would never have had the courage to end it before the weekend.’

‘You said it was a long-term relationship.’

‘Well, he’d discovered where the washing machine lived, so yeah, I guess you could call it long-term.’

‘I looked him up on my phone while I was waiting for you to lock up.’

‘Yeah?’

‘He’s famous.’

‘A famous tosser.’

‘He’s a hot British artist, so says Wikipedia.’

‘He’s a talented little boy, but there are lots of talented little boys. And at the end of the day, a wanker is a wanker is a wanker. And life’s too short to spend your time dealing with wankers.’

I wave my glass in a toast. ‘He’ll be disappointed. He was so looking forward to finding out your dark secret.’

Angelina snorts. ‘Oh, he mentioned that, did he?’

‘Yes. Your pact with the devil.’

‘The only pact I made with the devil, sister, is in return for being gorgeous and talented, Satan gets to torment me with losers with ugly ponytails.’

She laughs and tosses her head back, and her red hair ripples like the glass of wine in her hand. She turns away from me, looks out of the window and laughs again, but I can see her face in the mirror above the fireplace.

Her eyes are cold.
Perhaps she is thinking about Clyde. Or perhaps she is thinking about her pact with the devil.

I wonder what it is.
 

‘Anyway,’ I say at last. ‘Don’t worry about him.’

She grins a dazzling grin, but her eyes take a while to catch up with her smile. They are still troubled. ‘Don’t worry, I won’t. Tomorrow night, I’ll find another selfish artist who thinks he’s the next Picasso, but tonight belongs to us.’

‘Well, that’s a nice thought. But I’d better phone for a taxi.’

‘Stay,’ she says, putting her hand on my knee. ‘Stay over. We’ll get drunk and slag off everyone younger and thinner until the dawn pokes her rosy nose through the window.’

‘I can’t. Don’t ask me.’

‘You’re forty-three, darling. You’re old enough for sleep-overs.’

‘I
can’t
.’

‘Why not?’

‘Lots of reasons.’

‘Name them.’

‘Angelina… You know most of them.’

‘Name them.’

‘Well… I haven’t got my pills.’